Chapter 1 – Jordan
ONE
JORDAN
Present Day
“Where are you?” Xanie barks through the phone.
I jump from one foot to the other, slipping a pair of navy biker shorts up my legs while scanning the room for the matching sports bra.
Luka’s room should come with a tornado warning. It’s not dirty by any standards, more like organized chaos—he knows where everything is, which doesn’t help me at the present moment.
“Practice”—our extremely unofficial first one of the season, at least that’s what we assume after receiving a vague email from Coach late last night—“is in an hour, and your bed is untouched.”
“Um,” I whisper, mulling over how to tell her where, or better yet, who I was with. Hooking up with Luka Valentini was as lackluster as our relationship.
Technically, we’ve been broken up for a year, but for whatever idiotic reason, probably my lack of action this summer and desperate need to get laid, I found myself in his bed again.
I catch my phone from where it was propped up before it smacks against Luka’s desk, accidentally giving Xanie a full tit shot—not that I have much to oogle.
“You’re at Luka’s,” she accuses. How the hell can she tell?
I give her a half-assed, apologetic semi-smile, repositioning the phone and snatching my sports bra from where it’s caught on an open dresser drawer. A loose blue braid gets caught in the racer back.
“I needed to get laid,” is the excuse I give her.
“And how was it?” Her tone is condescending, but rightfully so. I may have complained a time or two about faking it with Luka. Last night being no different. I thought, just maybe, he’d grown out of his selfish tendencies. Heaven forbid a guy enjoy being on his knees.
I stick my tongue out, mocking her with a shake of my head.
Sheets rustle behind me, accompanied by an inaudible grumble. I freeze, sweatshirt zipper midway, slowly turning over a shoulder.
Luka rolls over, sheet slipping down his bare chest. When he grips a pillow and biceps flex, my plan to leave before he wakes almost flies out the window.
He doesn’t deserve to be that attractive. With his deep olive skin, intense facial features, and use of Italian to get what he wants most girls are putty in his hands. Unfortunately, I was most girls.
Clueless to the empty spot beside him, Luka’s mouth lolls open and he resumes snoring.
With a refrained sigh of relief, I finish zipping my sweatshirt while rushing down the stairs. I hit the bottom landing when a round of applause starts up. In the living room are Luka’s two roommates, Trent and Brad.
From the looks of it, their night is still going. Beer bottles haphazardly on the console table next to steaming mugs, and the blonde who was making out with Brad when I showed up last night now asleep.
They pair their applause with pig-ish commentary I let slide in one ear and out the other. I’ve always found them exasperating, but tolerated their presence because of Luka. I learned quickly to disregard them, as I do now—except for a friendly middle finger wave as I leave.
Xanie is waiting outside the arena for me, tumbler extended as I rush to her from where I parked. I take the coffee, letting the decadent iced liquid revive me.
“Thank you.” I savor another sip. It’s the perfect ratio of coffee to creamer.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she teases, giving me a knowing look. “Plugged in your little pink friend before I left. Thought you might need it later.” After a quick pause, she adds, “Now you can thank me.”
I roll my eyes.
Alexandria Gomez, Xanie for short, and I are going on three years as roommates. If there’s anyone who knows me best, it’s her, but it wasn’t always that way.
We both grew up in Minnesota, playing travel hockey and competing against each other several times a year, vying for the same spot on national-level teams.
I was the girl who had it easy in her eyes. A rich, famous, and Hall-of-Fame retired hockey player dad, and an older brother who is just as talented, that paved the way for me—an ice brick road leading to Oz.
When her hotel room flooded at the USA National Hockey Invitational, my mother, who was coincidentally in the lobby and overheard the dilemma, offered up the extra queen bed in my room.
I’ve never been great at making friends. When I was little, it was easy to categorize me as shy or quiet, something I can grow out of, an introvert compared to Molly and Cooper, my older siblings. They’re extroverts, the ones that everyone gravitates toward.
But I never truly grew out of those labels, they only shifted from shy to cold and quiet to serious.
I managed to pick up new ones along the way—mean, bitch.
Despite accepting my fate as the bonus Carmichael, I pushed against the labels, grasping for any threads of friendship. I didn’t need a surplus, just one.
Somehow, probably magic, Xanie saw past the walls I’d built with the bricks of failed friendships.
Memories of being excluded or taken advantage of the glue.
She plopped down on the bed that first night calling a truce, and by the end of the weekend wedged her way into my life. I haven’t let go of her since.
“I blame you, you know,” I tell her.
“Me? Oh, no, no, no.”
“You were the one who said, and I quote, ‘gods, Jord, if you just got laid, it would at least be a better stick up your ass’ last night.” I do my best impression of her, twisting and pulling at the end of a braid with my free hand the same way she does with her dark hair.
“Where in that did I say to booty call your ex? If I remember correctly, which I do, I pointed out at least three solid candidates.”
“My brother’s teammates?” We’d met up with Cooper, his roommates, and a few of the other guys from the men’s hockey team at The Tipsy Bear, the only bar on campus, last night.
“Jaxon was flirting with you.”
“Me and every female with a pulse.” I roll my eyes, thinking about my brother’s friendly-to-a-fault best friend. “And for the record, I did not text Luka.” Xanie gives me a pointed look, scanning her ID before holding open the main door. “I responded to a text, but that doesn’t count.”
“Sure, let’s go with that.”
“It’s done, anyways.”
“Done.” She uses air quotes.
“Trust me, it—”
Xanie and I glance at each other, confused by the growing group of our teammates gathered outside the locker room doors. Taped on the door is a piece of paper with all capitals: MEET IN CONFERENCE ROOM TWO.
Weird.
Coach always hosts a preseason meeting, but it’s out on the ice…and not till classes have started. A light practice that’s more team bonding than anything. An escape for gossip before focusing on the upcoming season.
Even weirder, as we file into the theater style room used for film, is the new Athletic Director standing beside Coach Lang, who’s leaning against a table in front of the projection screen. Arms crossed over her chest, head bobbing, taking a silent attendance.
We find two empty seats toward the middle of the room.
“That’s everyone who’s back already.” Student-athletes are allowed to be on campus up to two weeks before classes start.
The Athletic Director opens his mouth to speak and it drains the bubbling energy out of the room. He’s not entirely new; he served as interim director this past spring before accepting the position at the end of the school year. Before that, he was the assistant director.
Unlike the previous AD, who was a staple on campus—knew everyone’s names and positions, offered up life advice like a grandparent, rumored to have cloned himself to attend every sporting event—no one really likes him or his receding hairline and beak for a nose.
In my three years at Lakeland, I think I’ve seen him at two of our games.
But if it were men’s hockey, baseball, or football, that would be a different story.
“Would you look at that, the girls are prompt.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “Good morning.” There’s a cacophony of hellos and good mornings in response. “Welcome back to campus. I hope everyone had a pleasurable summer.”
Xanie taps my knee, wiggling her brows. In retaliation, I steal her bag of gummy bears which I about spit out when I hear him call my name after awkwardly congratulating us for our Frozen Four Victory last season.
“Where are Kline and Carmichael?” We raise our hands. “Congratulations are also in order for your position awards.” I won offensive player of the year. “I’m impressed by your dedication to your respective position and know those accolades are well deserved.”
I blink, unsure if I should say thank you. Leaning closer to Xanie, I whisper, “Do you think he could even name my position?”
“Do you think someone wrote this speech for him?” she whispers back. Speech is a far kinder way to describe the few sentences he’s robotically recited thus far.
“Now that we are through that,” the AD continues, but my eyes catch on Coach. Jaw and shoulders tightening, white spreads across her knuckles. I shift uncomfortably, defensively.
“There is an important reason I asked for your team to meet this morning. Unfortunately, over the summer, several athletic boosters pulled their funding. As a result, we’ve had to make difficult decisions on where to reallocate what is left of our budget.
” He takes a deep breath. “I wish I had better news to share, but as of today, there is no longer a women’s hockey program at Lakeland University. ”
The room erupts.
Rumblings break out amongst my—can I even call them teammates now? Questions, and a few expletives, hurled his way from every direction. Some stand, their chairs clattering to the ground.
This can’t be right.
Xanie is quiet, amber eyes wide, phone in hand and Google pulled up.
I’m…I don’t know what I am. A familiar wave of grief hits me. Then a jolt of pain. The taste of iron coats my tongue.
Locked on Coach, I watch as she quickly wipes her cheeks. It’s discreet, the professional posture she’s maintaining portraying a more controlled demeanor. She’s always been the definition of poised, down to her designer shoes.
Easily admired, and revered, as one of four female head coaches on campus and one of ten in NCAA division one hockey.
Coach probably would’ve played in the women’s professional league if it was around when she graduated.
She played at Boston, then for Team USA winning two gold medals, before leaving her jobs as a middle school science teacher to coach here.
A crack in her facade forces me to seal mine. Stabilize my unsteady heart, thumping against my chest. I bite my other cheek, careful to not draw blood again.
Shifting my attention back to our Athletic Director, it’s comical watching him attempt to wrangle us in. Hands waving. Saying something I can’t make out over the crescendo of voices, his earth-shattering words play in my head like a broken record.
Our assistant coach stands and whistles. The room goes silent. “Sit down, now,” he demands, voice stern. “We will go one at a time with questions after Director Thomas finishes speaking.”
A couple minutes later, the floor is opened to questions, players being referred to by what they’re wearing instead of their names when called on.
Paige, a sophomore defender, or the girl in the turquoise hoodie, asks, “Did any men’s teams get cut?” Her question is a sharp-tipped arrow, one that can be felt piercing the air as it breezes by us from rows back.
“No,” he answers almost too carelessly, shaking his head as if missing the blow.
“What other teams?” she follows up with before he can select someone else.
He clears his throat and clasps his hands in front of him. The three-piece suit he’s wearing and the fat tie, a horrific shade of plum, are outdated. “Both ice and field hockey, golf, rowing, and cross country.”
“That’s bullshit!” Ruby, a senior, shouts from the back.
She doesn’t wait to be called on to continue, but she’s always been vocal.
Her chirping on the ice has landed her in the penalty box more often than not.
“Our women’s programs in rowing and cross country are better than the men’s.
Ranked in the top twenty-five,” she spews.
“Why weren’t any of their teams selected? ”
Without skipping a beat, his tone icy, he answers, “Men’s sports bring in more money.”
There’s another uproar, but he ignores it, calling on raised hands. There’s a lack of remorse, of any emotion as he continues to answer questions. I know I can come off cold, but I think enjoys being cold. By the end we’re speaking over each other, Coach steps up to silence us.
“I think we’re done here. If there’s anymore questions, I can handle them.” He leaves without a goodbye or an ounce of hope. “Ladies—”
Coach closes her eyes, shoulders drooping. Her mouth curls in, and I can sense how much this is tearing her up.
“What about your job?” our newly elected captain, Yvonne, asks. Barely three months ago, we were planning for next year. Going through our summer training programs, reviewing our schedule, and voting on captains. “What’s happening to all of you?”
“Please don’t worry about me or any of the coaching staff.
” Coach’s chest defeats. “This is not about us.” But it is.
They are as much a part of this team as we are.
“This—” Coach cuts herself off. “I’m not going to lie to you girls.
There’s a lot of uncertainty around this.
Tough conversations were made without clear minds or ears, people missing from the room.
I don’t know what’s going to happen, but what I can tell you is that I am fighting for you.
“I understand this is a lot to process, and that you all are confused and hurt. You have every reason to be, and I won’t deny your feelings right now, but what I need from you is patience.
Please do not retaliate. Please do not do anything reckless or stupid.
The last thing we need is a reason for them to never reinstate the team. Understood?”
There’s a unison of movement of our heads, all nodding yes.
“Let me hear you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Thank you. Now, I can assume you have more questions.” She huffs out a sad laugh.
“We”—she gestures to the front row of coaches—“probably don’t have all the answers, but what we will do is collect them the best we can.
Take the day or two, and email me any questions you have, and we’ll meet again before the semester starts.
If there is anything urgent, please see me individually. ”
Any remaining air is suctioned out of the room. Everyone gets up, solemn tone all around. There is murmuring and shifting of bags, some of the team making plans to grab breakfast or hang out.
Xanie stands first, but I’m right behind her. We make our way to the aisle with plans to grab another coffee, but before we can ascend the stairs to the door, I hear my last name called.
“Carmichael.” Its Coach.
My braids swing over my shoulder as I turn. “Yeah, Coach?”
“My office, please.” She waves me on, being drawn into a hushed conversation with our strength and conditioning coach.